


The Shadow Of What Might Have Been

by beargirl1393



Series: Sherlock Holmes drabbles [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Holmes worries, M/M, POV John Watson, Watson sets him straight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While out walking with Holmes, Watson sees him looking at one of the young soldiers in uniform. Holmes isn't looking for the reason Watson would believe however. That young man happened to be blonde and a Scottish soldier, reminding Holmes of the man he had met years before at Bart's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow Of What Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I watch Bedknobs & Broomsticks late at night while reading Sherlock Holmes. Fun Fact: the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers are mentioned in that movie :)

Holmes’ hand on my arm prevented me from wandering off to get lost in the maze that this street seemed to be, but I couldn’t stop looking from side to side. The people here seemed so energetic, despite the troubling times.

I laughed as he watched the young soldiers dancing with their lasses, seemingly carefree and content. I felt a pang of sadness as I considered how many of those men would come back, and how changed their outlook would be. I forcibly stopped that thought before it could depress me and instead focused on my companion.

“What are we looking for here Holmes?” I asked, glancing sideways to my silent companion. “Or is it a who this time?”

“No Watson,” Holmes replied with a small chuckle. “It is not a who I am searching for, rather a what. There is a rather fine book on beekeeping that I have been searching for, and as there is a little of everything here, I decided to check Portebello Road for what I need, and you so kindly decided to accompany me.”

“Ah,” I replied, nodding. My dear friend did love his bees. In our house in Sussex (I may say our here, instead of his, as this story will never be published) he keeps bees, and the honey is quite divine.

I was broken out of my musings by the sound of bagpipes, a sound I had heard infrequently throughout childhood and not at all since I relocated to London. There were several Scottish lads, a few wearing kilts as part of their uniform, dancing to the bagpipe music with a few lasses.

Holmes paused, cocking his head to the side as he observed the dancers. I knew (quite well) that it was unlikely that the ladies had caught his eye, and wondered if it was perhaps the sight of the young gentlemen that gave him pause. I felt every one of my years and each of my injuries when Holmes turned to me after the men left. There was an odd gleam in his quicksilver eyes.

“Watson,” he said, voice nothing more than a low baritone rumble. “Why do you suppose that I stopped to watch those men dancing and not the rest?”

I bit my lip to stay silent. There were several reasons that I could name, the foremost of which could never be mentioned in public. He likely read that thought on my face, as he is wont to do, as he grapsed me by the elbow once more and led me away.

“Your book Holmes,” I protested. Surely, a bit of petty jealousy (when nothing would ever come of it) on my end isn’t enough to cut our outing short?

“I need to explain something to you, and I fear that I cannot stand to be around these crowds another minute,” Holmes said, his voice still low enough that none could overhear.

We caught a cab back to our hotel, Holmes quietly observing the people on the sidewalk as the cab trundled along.

Upon entering our rooms, Holmes quickly shut and locked the door behind me before pulling me into a thorough and breathtaking kiss.

“Do you have any idea,” he panted when we finally separated, “Any idea how worried I was for you?”

I frowned, confusion swirling through me. I wasn’t the one who had run all over America trying to gather enough information to fool an enemy agent.

Holmes likely read that sentiment, as he elaborated, “One of those men had your hair color John. It was difficult, to see that young man and not see him, but you. I saw you, as you must have appeared when you were off to war. I saw you, and realize that I may have never met you. Your wounds and the fever nearly killed you.”

I pulled him closer, realizing just how misplaced my jealousy had been. Holmes had cared little for the youth. He had looked at the boy and saw a younger version of myself, ready to go off to war, and he had been terrified of the idea that we might never have met.

“I have the same thoughts occasionally Holmes,” I admitted, causing him to raise his head from where he had buried it in my neck. I ran my fingers through his dark hair, ruffling the strands to free it from the brilliantine. “I wonder about how many times I nearly lost you before I even knew you. What criminal decided to add murder of Sherlock Holmes to whatever crime he committed that you caught.”

Holmes simply stared at me, grey eyes gleaming.

“The important thing,” I continued, still holding him close and carding his hair, “Is that none of that happened. We both lived and came to meet in a dingy lab at Bart’s because Stamford thought we would do well together.”

Holmes laughed, in that singularly silent fashion that he has. “I doubt that he understood precisely how well we would get along.”

I could only laugh, agreeing.


End file.
